


The Spirits We Drank Are Now Ghosts in the Room

by cathybites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-21
Updated: 2011-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-18 11:10:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathybites/pseuds/cathybites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam gets Dean drunk. Porn and angst ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spirits We Drank Are Now Ghosts in the Room

**Author's Note:**

> ha. um, this was supposed to be commentfic for [](http://wendy.livejournal.com/profile)[**wendy**](http://wendy.livejournal.com/) who prompted me with _'Sam gets Dean drunk and takes advantage of him. Course...Dean likes it'_ , but, uh. it got a bit away from me. thank you to [](http://loveflyfree.livejournal.com/profile)[**loveflyfree**](http://loveflyfree.livejournal.com/) for the readthrough and Spirit of the West for the title.

When Sam sets down the first shot of whiskey, Dean raises an eyebrow, then tilts his head back to grin at him, reaching out to smack his arm before picking it up and tipping it toward Sam. "Is this an apology," he asks, "for letting my Metallica tape 'accidentally' fly out the window?"

"Fuck you," Sam snaps back, but there's a smile on his face and warmth in his voice as he clinks his glass against Dean's. "That tape had it coming."

The second and third shots come and go, and Dean settles into his chair, one arm hanging off the back as he looks around the bar. He's starting to feel the itch, the thrumming need to work off some of the adrenaline from the hunt, but the pickings are looking slim. A blonde across the room smiles and winks at him, but he can see the wrinkles under the pancake makeup even from here. _Not a chance_ , he thinks.

A jolt to his chair startles him, and he looks up to see Sam standing behind him, six shot glasses in his hands with room to spare and, _Christ_ , when did his little brother get so freakin' huge? The faintest hint of an image of those hands elsewhere flit through Dean's mind and he gives a violent shake of his head.

"Hey, you okay?" Sam asks, and Dean blinks, gives another little shake, and grins as he takes three of the glasses from Sam.

"I'm well past okay and heading straight into awesome," he says, and Sam rolls his eyes, lips quirking up the slightest bit.

Those three shots disappear, and now Dean's feeling good. More than good, he's relaxed and ready for some real fun. Sam looks happy, too, constant smiles on his face as he tells Dean about some movie he caught on cable the other night. Dean laughs, but his mind's already leaping ahead, honing in on the brunette over by the jukebox, with legs for miles and an ass to match. She glances over, licks her lips and smiles, and Dean grins.

"I'm going to get another round," Sam says, grabbing Dean's attention as he gets to his feet. Dean takes a look at the tabletop already littered with glasses and snorts.

"You tryin' to get me drunk or something?" he says, kicking at Sam's foot and batting his eyes. Sam laughs, but his face flushes and he rubs at the back of his neck.

"Funny, Dean, real funny." The words come out a little strained, like when he-- and Dean tenses at the sound, swallows hard and presses his palms into his thighs, resolutely ignoring the warmth spreading through his body.

He watches Sam stride over to the bar, long legs eating up the distance, then forces himself to look for the brunette again. She's still by the jukebox, watching him with an open invitation in the curve of her lips, and Dean thinks, _I am so in_. He gets to his feet and starts toward her, but something warm wraps around his wrist, halting him. He looks down and sees a hand, and he follows the line from the hand to a forearm to the sleeve of Sam's t-shirt, and finally to Sam's face. Sam's mouth is set in a tight line, a slight downward tilt to it, and his eyes are dark as they glare at Dean. "What?" Dean says, trying to shake Sam's hand off. He looks back at the girl and she's watching them with a bemused expression.

Sam tightens his grip. "Let's go," he says, and he starts to walk, but Dean digs his heels in, yanks his hand back.

"Fuck you, Sam. I got plans." He turns to get the girl's attention but it's already too late; she's got her back to them, leaning into some scruffy fratboy. Sam grabs ahold of him again, tugging insistently, and Dean gives the girl one last disappointed look before following him out of the bar, annoyance rolling into anger as the door shuts behind them.

They get to the Impala, parked in the back, safely hidden away from drunks, and Sam finally lets go when Dean shoves him hard. "What the fuck, Sam?" The air is cool and damp around them, but he can still feel the warm imprint of Sam's hand around his wrist; he shakes his arm out, fingers flexing. "You cockblocking me now?"

Sam's face screws up at those words, twists into something open and raw that makes Dean's heart stutter, then steels itself into a look Dean has seen a thousand times before. He braces himself for whatever Sam's going to throw at him, but nothing could have prepared him for Sam backing him against the car, grabbing ahold of his head, and kissing him.

His hands come up to push at Sam, but Sam holds on, refusing to budge his mouth from Dean's. He nips and licks and sucks at Dean's mouth, fingers curving around the back of his skull and angling Dean's head. "C'mon, Dean, just c'mon," he breathes against Dean's cheek, along his jawline. The words are warm and heavy, sinking into Dean's skin, settling in the blood that's headed rapidly southward. "We can forget about it tomorrow, blame it on the booze again if you want, but just lemme have this, okay? Okay?"

 _He_ was _trying to get me drunk_ , Dean thinks with more than a little amusement; then he's not thinking at all because one of Sam's hands, one of his big warm hands, is palming him through his jeans. He sucks in a sharp breath and Sam takes advantage, tongue sliding in wetly past Dean's lips.

And, _Christ_ , Dean is having a hard time remembering why they agreed to never let this happen again, why he wouldn't want it to. He tries to remind himself that it's Sam kissing him like he's laying claim to something, it's Sam with - holy _fuck_ \- his hand shoving into his pants. Sam who's drawing out those whimpers with the rough slide of his fist, but those thoughts just ratchet up the heat in his blood and chip away at any resistance he might have had.

His head bangs back on the roof of the Impala, and the trail Sam blazes from Dean's mouth down to his throat is burning hot, skin electrified from Sam's kisses. His pants get pushed past his hips, and Sam's hand tugs on his balls, rolling them lightly before curling tight and warm around his cock again. He pushes up into Sam's fist, and moans. "The booze, huh?" he manages to get out, and Sam's lips skate over the pulse in his throat, the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows.

"If you want," Sam mutters, licking at the soft skin under Dean's jaw before sucking at it and, _shit_ , okay. Dean wants. He _wants_.

Sam laughs softly, and Dean thinks he might've said that last bit aloud, but it doesn't matter, not when Sam sucks at his skin one last time before falling to his knees. Not when the hand that's been jacking him slow and sure holds his dick steady as Sam wraps his mouth around the head. Not when Sam uses his free arm to hold Dean's hips still as his mouth sinks down Dean's cock, hot and wet pressure that has Dean trembling, sweating, swearing.

Dean's hips strain against Sam's hold and his fingers press into the Impala's side. He bites down on his lower lip and tries to think of anything but Sam on his knees, Sam's mouth sliding up and down his dick, Sam's tongue fluttering along the underside and then sucking right under the ridge and-- It's over too quick. Dean buries his fingers in Sam's hair, the only warning he can manage before he's coming, dick thickening and pulsing in Sam's mouth, down his throat.

Everything is silent for a long, blissful moment; then it all comes rushing back in surround sound. The music and murmur of voices from the bar, the distant sound of crickets and other bugs, enjoying one last night before the frost comes. The pounding rhythm of his heart battering against his chest. Quiet gasps of breath from Sam, still kneeling, his forehead pressed against Dean's hip. Dean feels suddenly, blindingly sober and he sidesteps to the right and tucks himself away.

He takes a breath, then another, working up the nerve to say what needs to be said. Before he can get a word out, Sam pushes back, gets to his feet. He's got that same determined look on his face from before, the same glint to his eyes, and he steps forward, bracing his arms on either side of Dean.

"Don't," he says, his voice a low growl that rumbles through Dean's frame. "Don't start overthinking this, or making excuses, or...whatever."

His jaw clenches, and Dean's overwhelmed by the sudden urge to lick the tense line of it. He tamps down on the impulse and looks past Sam's shoulder instead, into the darkness surrounding them. Sam sighs, tips his head forward to rest against Dean's shoulder. When he speaks again, Dean can feel the brush of Sam's lips against his throat. "Why can't we just have this?"

Dean can't say anything. He doesn't know what to say to chase away the plaintive tone in Sam's voice, or to tell him it'll all work out, or that it won't. He can't find the words so he does what he can - he hooks his fingers in the beltloops of Sam's jeans and tugs him closer, widening his stance so Sam can settle in the vee of his legs. Sam's still hard - Dean can feel the rigid length of Sam's cock press against his hip - and Dean doesn't let himself think about it, just tugs the button free, draws the zipper down, and slides his hand into Sam's shorts.

He plans on making it quick, methodical, but Sam hisses in protest and grabs his hand. There's a moment of panicked confusion when Sam pulls his hand away that sizzles into clarity as Sam locks eyes with him and licks Dean's palm. Sam's tongue swipes along the lines of his hand, then swirls up the index finger before drawing it into his mouth and, _fuck_. Dean's dick twitches in interest as Sam sucks on it, eyes still on Dean. The slide out is accompanied by an obscene, wet noise, and Sam pushes Dean's hand back, wraps his fingers around Dean's own as they curl around Sam's cock.

The buzz from the shots is completely gone from his system and there's nothing to blur the memory of this, the way Sam fits perfectly in his hand. There'll be no hazy recollection of the way Sam pants as Dean jacks him off, no vague impressions of how Sam moans whenever Dean thumbs his slit. When Dean looks in the mirror tomorrow morning, he's going to remember every second, sound, and touch that happens tonight.

His grip tightens and Sam lurches forward, brings both hands up to cradle Dean's face. He kisses Dean, bites his lips and sucks on his tongue; Sam tastes like whiskey, mellow and intoxicating, and Dean chases after the flavor, licking into Sam's mouth. Sam whimpers and moans, and Dean swallows them all down.

"Sam, Sammy," he murmurs against Sam's lips, "c'mon, I got you. I got you, okay?" Over and over, he repeats the words, pulling with the rhythm of them. When Sam finally spills hot and slick over Dean's fist, Dean's not even saying them anymore, just mouthing the syllables against the flushed skin of Sam's cheek.

After a long, quiet pause, Sam says, "We can have this, Dean. We _deserve_ this." His voice is hushed, but the words are strong and clear.

Dean doesn't realize the tremble is coming from him, not until Sam runs his hands down Dean's arms, stills him with a touch. "I thought--" His voice cracks and he takes a breath, clears his throat before continuing. "I thought you said we're gonna forget about this tomorrow."

Sam steps back, face drawn tight, eyes serious. His nostrils flare and he says, "You really wanna do that?"

It's on the tip of his tongue to say _yes_. Dean can taste the word, sharp and sour with denial, but he can't force it out. He takes a deep breath, looks down to the ground, and says, "No."

The tension in Sam's body disappears. He's not quite smiling, but his expression relaxes, relief softening the lines of his face. Something loosens in Dean's chest at the sight, a knot he hadn't even realized was there. He's far from convinced that this isn't a bad idea, but, fuck it. He'll deal with the fallout tomorrow or next week, whenever it comes.

The slam of a car door from the front lot reminds him of where they are, and Dean is more than ready to hit the road. "We done sharing and caring?"

The roll of Sam's eyes is familiar and welcome, helps Dean get back to territory he knows. His hand is still sticky with Sam's come, and he frowns at it before reaching around and wiping it on the back of Sam's shirt.

"Asshole!" Sam twists around, trying to spot the mess. Dean laughs, smacks his hand against the door, and Sam looks at him, mouth stretching into a grin. "You're so doing my laundry."

The words come easy, but Dean can see the question in Sam's eyes, in the set of his shoulders. _Are we really okay?_ is what he's really saying, and Dean ducks his head, then looks up at Sam, snorting.

"Fuck you. That's for my tape." _Yeah, we are._ And the crazy thing of it is, right here, right now, he believes it.


End file.
